the mistaken mutilation of a mind
by lastofthecrimelords
Summary: jim from i.t. and richard brook weren't moriarty's only personas. he can pick and choose them as he pleases, and there have been quite a few over the years - but only two have stayed with him all this time.


Disclaimer: I'd like to think of a creative way of saying, "I don't own Sherlock" but the sad truth is, I can't. And I don't.

A/N: I honestly don't know how this came about; I just wrote the first few lines and the rest flowed from there, which is why it may not make much sense. I guess it's set when Moriarty's just beginning to play his "game" with Sherlock. So…let me know what you think, even if it's bad. But if it is bad, please tell me why – don't just write, "THIS IS SHIT, GET OUT OF OUR FANDOM YOU AMATEUR." Because I do try.

* * *

><p>And once again, Moriarty finds himself at the club.<p>

He breathes through his mouth, because the tepid air disgusts him, reeking of soiled skin and salty heartbeats. He isn't sure how he's ended up here. It's the same place he's been to before, and he remembers sitting in the booth with the Persona by his side. They'd talked. He doesn't remember what they'd talked about, exactly. He isn't sure he wants to.

Slim hands holding a small glass of whisky. That's like last time, too. This time, the makers decided to leave the fingers intact. You know, just for the hell of it.

"We have a copycat, Jim."

"I know. They think it's the Shadow. He says he's offended. He told me that he'd never do that to a woman. I mean, the monster _raped_ her!" he hisses.

Around him, the lights change again, swirling patterns dancing flecks of colour across the walls and floor, staining his hands purple. The ravers seem to have a sort of mission to turn dancing into a sexual act.

_(Whatever happened to the foxtrot, for God's sake_?)

The Persona says, "Don't think about writing another letter. That was a stupid idea you had."

"It wasn't _my_ idea! _He_ told me that it was a stupid name. He wanted to be called the Artist."

The Persona shakes his head. "Whatever. Just listen to me for a second. Stop this shit, Jim. Stop talking like you, him, and I are different people. We're in the same mind, for God's sake."

"I don't believe in God," Moriarty mutters peevishly.

"Shut up. For the love of God, shut up and listen to your voice of reason. I mean, damn!" The Persona sighs, and shakes his head. "This is not the time to debate the existence of God with yourself. And I am _you, _damn it. You listen to him, why not me?"

"OK, no need to get snippity."

_(Where has that word come from? Never mind; it seems to fit, regardless.)_

Moriarty laughs, without really knowing why he is doing so.

"Jesus Christ, you really might need to do this yourself," the Persona mutters, and then seems just to slip away, like an optical illusion, a thieving fox disappearing into the black of the night. It's as if he's simply been swallowed up amongst the frenzied, pulsing bodies. Moriarty takes a sip of the whiskey, and wonders if it's against the law for the DJ to play good music.

A young woman in a figure-hugging black slip and high, clunky boots sashays over to him through the crowd. Her hair is white, and sticks up in fronds, frayed and streaked with reddish dye. Her heavily made-up eyes, one hidden by a white contact lens, blink dazedly at him. She seems pretty loaded, the way she's swaying. Or maybe it's just the boots that are pulling her off-balance. Moriarty looks up at the_ thing_ wearing the dress, and wonders they all wear those boots, anyway. They look uncomfortable and stupid.

She sits down in his booth, in the Persona's usual spot, crossing one leg provocatively over the other.

"I've seen you here a lot. You've never danced."

Moriarty wonders why she had to sit at _his_ table. There are a bunch of perfectly good ones all around them. And why is she blinking so much? Does she have some sort of eye problems? The statement is stupid, too. People like her seem to feel the need to point out the obvious.

He sighs. "I consider any sort of dancing to this filth an insult to music."

"Oh," she says, looking a little confused. Her eyes flickered again, following the lights. They move strangely, sluggishly, each at a slightly different pace. He doesn't know what she's been drinking, but whatever it is, she's had too much of it.

That should shut her up, he hopes, and he drinks some more of the whiskey.

"You have really dark eyes. They look pretty," the woman says, looking at him with a kind of dazed smile, which Moriarty somehow finds both bestial and strangely alluring.

Why is she pointing out my physical characteristics? the logical part of him wonders, somewhere in the back of his mind. Does she think I don't know what I look like? But another part, closer to the forefront, closer to his current consciousness, tells him to play along, not to blow up. So he nods.

"Do you want to dance?" she asks him suddenly, as though this is some bright and beautiful idea.

"No, thanks." He makes a point of staring down into the depths of his glass. "I already mentioned that I don't like dancing."

"What? Is that all you're going to say?" She glares, those mismatched eyes becoming slits.

He lifts his head at last, and looks at her, and he shrugs. "Pretty much, yeah."

She takes a deep breath, seemingly attempting to cool herself down, and gives him a forced smile, lipstick smudged a little around the corners. "I'm asking you nicely," she says. "Come and dance with me."

Moriarty takes a swig from the whisky, and places it down on the table with a faint, high _ting. _The last remnants of the amber liquid ripple within the glass.

"I said no," he tells her, simply and clearly, and turns his back.

Her expression hardens. "Gay freak!" she hisses, and draws her chair back with a scrape, stalking off into the crowd. Whatever it is that's just happened, it seemed to hurt her in some strange way. He doesn't know why. He was perfectly civil.

Moriarty nurses the rest of his glass and wonders why people are just so infinitely stupid.

* * *

><p><em>It's filthy, Jim! Utterly filthy! They think I did this unbearable shit. I can't believe it. Do they really think I'm capable of actually doing something that horrid and…and…inartistic!<em>

Moriarty shrugs. He's seated upon a sleek white couch, watching the news. This apartment is nice. Well, it should be. After all, his latest client had paid for it. Dear Jim, my husband's cheating on me. Dear Jim, I need to escape…Dear Jim, I have to hide a corpse. Jim, please fix it for me…It's a profitable business, that's for certain. Whoever said crime didn't pay had just never given it a try. Or maybe they just weren't good enough at it.

Out loud, he says, "I guess they don't fully understand you and all that stuff."

_Of course they don't. What I do is art! I kill them and show them for a brief moment how their life is meaningless. For a split second, I am an artist, and they are beautiful and perfect. Then they break. Like glass. It's beautiful, really._

"You thought bringing your art, playmate, or whatever the hell you want to call it into a safe place for you to play with it – you thought it might last longer. It must've been fun for you. The thought of getting caught. The beauty of that final piece. You admired it for a while before dumping it, didn't you? You're sick. You're bad. The Persona's right. You're bad, and I shouldn't be around you."

_But you need to join him. He is all your faults and excess dirt. To become part of him would be your freedom. He'd mainly go away, I promise, _the Persona whispered.

"You're not even a proper serial killer, for God's sake! Where's your damned fantasy being lived out in every kill! Show that to me, you bastard!"

He realises he is on his feet, though he doesn't recall standing up. Unclenching his fists, he sees that the crescents of his nails are red, and feels a sick lurch in his stomach.

_I doubt it's real. Nothing is real to me anymore. Est nihil in vita. There is nothing in life. Deus est mortus. God is dead,_ he thinks, unable even to tell which part of him is speaking any longer. They all sound the same after a while.

_We're going out tonight. We're going to find him._

"Who?"

_Sherlock, of course. Isn't it obvious?_

"Not like this. We need to plan it."

_We know he hunts like us. He might want to see us. We can trick him. Make like we want to join him, to make art and play the Game with him. Then, we will burn him._

"Oh, you're _bad,"_ Moriarty whispers without much conviction, watching the blood well from the crescents cut into his palm.

_I am not bad. I am not good. I merely_ _am_.

* * *

><p>The Shadow calls to him while he's shaving, one of the rare occasions he has catered to his personal hygiene in a while. The razor blade glides against his skin and the shaving cream, shearing away the excess hair.<p>

_We have to play tonight, Jim._

"I don't want to." He drops the razor into the sink, then washes the remnants of shaving cream away and dries his face. "We only played two nights ago."

_It was_ _last night, don't you remember? It was the first time you brought a playmate home. But, I need to do it now. It has to be done. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust, it must happen. Their blood has to be spilt. They're not even real, old buddy. They're not even there._

"The Persona told me not to listen to you."

_Since when do you listen to him?_

"He told me you were bad."

_That's because you want to think I'm bad. He says whatever you want to say or sincerely believe. He is how you view yourself. Just drop the façade. Let me quench the thirst. Let me satiate my hunger. They're not even real anyway, are they, Jim?_

"No, they aren't real. They're bad and dirty."

_Yes, they're filthy. End a reasonless existence, my darling. They just waste their life. They do not realize that their actions affect anyone. Teach them true pain. Let me feel complete. Let_ you_ feel complete._

Moriarty stands there, nodding dumbly. Small black rabbits burst from blue holes in the ground. Neon lights shine from their bodies. They giggle at him, nodding their strangely human features.

Moriarty bends down to touch one and feels fur that is there and is not at the same time.

_You know it's fake,_ his Persona whispers. _Daylight hallucination._

The thing snaps at him. Its face twists and drips like molten metal. Moriarty lets out a cry and falls backwards. They swarm him, giggling and hissing with their demon faces.

He coveres his face with his hands and begins, helplessly and stupidly, to cry.

_I can make it all go away, _the Shadow and Persona whisper as one. _Just take my hand, and things will be better._

* * *

><p>Moriarty concludes that even though the rabbits sometimes pretend to be his friends, they are still evil and not to be trusted. They're tagging along on the hunt as always. They always feel the insatiable need to follow him. Pretending to be real when they really are not.<p>

Moriarty hates them. He wants to crush them all, make them die. They are there to turn him over to the police. He knows it. He sees through their innocent façade. They are demons sent by everyone the Shadow killed.

It has been _so_ long since the Shadow announced his plans to hunt down Sherlock. A week. A month. Maybe a year, he forgets. He doesn't really care, either way. They've occupied themselves otherwise since then. Requests, emails, a murder here, a kidnap there. It's all so banal. So _boring. _

Moriarty imagines that maybe this is all an illusion. Maybe he's just making it all up as he goes.

_(Lah-dee-dah, dah-dee-dee, it's all fake! Nothing matters here!)_

He knows that's wrong, but it's such a nice thought to hold on to.

Moriarty sways in the night wind as the Shadow leads him around the bowels of the city. He isn't sure where they're going. He hopes it won't be the club again. The music they played there was downright awful.

_(And I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad, the dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had...)_

"I like that song," Moriarty says to nobody in particular.

In a corner of his head, the Shadow plans and plots. Guiding the invading feelings in and out with perfect ease while pushing blocks into their correctly-shaped, cut-out counterparts, and it's all bombs and Semtex and fire and pools and trainers and hearts and dancing and strobe-lights and Sherlock, always Sherlock. The game is on and the pieces are in position; it's just a question of who makes the first move.

Jim Moriarty closes his eyes and lets the song overwhelm him.


End file.
